


Putting Up Shelves

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), And by friend I mean fuck buddy, Blow Jobs, But ACD did say we can do what we will with Sherlock Holmes, But not from the same person, Casual Sex, Chippers the Fish and Chips Shop owner, Detailed description of Sherlock’s torture wounds, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Many apologies to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mention of faked suicide, PWP with feels, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 03, Sherlock meets a new friend, Sherlock’s return to London, Sherlock’s scars, TEH after John and Mary leave in the cab, TEH after the Reveal Scene, There are no actual shelves in this fic, a little bit of angst, this was supposed to be PWP but it got angsty, tumblr prompt fill - Chippers fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 00:50:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6173518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock stood on the pavement with a bloody nose as he watched John and Mary drive away in a cab. He’d been in three restaurants that night but he still hadn’t had a bite to eat - and he was famished. He finds a new chip shop that opened while he was away and the proprietor is only too happy to satisfy Sherlock’s hunger.</p>
<p>Skulls-and-tea posted a meta on tumblr in Fall 2015<br/><a href="http://skulls-and-tea.tumblr.com/post/127755478946/i-helped-him-put-up-some-shelves%0A">Putting Up Shelves</a><br/>about ‘putting up shelves’ as a slang term for sex. Several posts went around with conjectures about Sherlock in TEH saying that he helped the chip shop owner put up shelves. Through evolution of tumblr posts, someone named the chip shop proprietor ‘Chippers.’  (sorry but I can't remember who came up with that name - but thank you to whoever it was) Several people said they’d like to read a Chippers fic. And now, they can.</p>
<p>Cover art by the incredibly talented gurkenpflaster.tumblr.com.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Putting Up Shelves

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to MissDavis and SincerelyChaos for beta on this fic. All kudos to you both!

Sherlock dropped a bloody tissue into a bin he passed on the pavement. A cab rumbled by but he let it go, deciding to walk to learn what had changed in the neighborhood during the past two years. As he set off toward Baker Street, his stomach rumbled. He’d been in three restaurants that evening but had yet to have even a single bite to eat. Certain he’d pass a diner, he folded his hands behind his back and dropped into thought. 

He’d made a huge mistake. An Earth-shattering miscalculation. A mistaken assumption of Biblical proportions. Earlier that evening, he’d felt such conviction that his course had been the right one - he’d had to keep John safe at any cost, and the easiest way to keep John safe had been to keep him in the dark about his plan. Now, it was so clear that he’d been wrong to not include John in his plans to confront Moriarity on the Bart’s rooftop. It looked like he’d lost John by keeping him safe. 

Sherlock heaved a frustrated sigh. He’d told John it was just a magic trick but John hadn’t understood those words during the rooftop phone call. Sherlock had counted on John’s above-average intelligence. He’d fully expected John to read between the lines. He’d done all but come right out and tell John - but he couldn't do that, he couldn’t be sure Moriarity hadn’t tapped his phone, that one of Moriarty's men wasn’t listening. So he’d jumped to keep John safe - and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, of course. He’d spent two years away, living in danger, on the run, and that entire time John had believed him dead. And his twit of a brother hadn’t seen fit to inform John of the truth, instead assuming that Sherlock would want him to just keep a ‘weather eye’ on the shattered remnants of John’s life.

And that woman! It was bad enough that his best friend was angry enough to assault him - but to also have a strange woman insert herself between he and John was almost unbearable. How presumptuous, to take it upon herself to “talk him around.” As if he needed her help to win John’s forgiveness.

A savory smell registered through the layers of Sherlock’s thoughts. A smell he’d missed, that he’d not been able to find anywhere outside of London: A chip shop. The red sign over the door read ‘Chippers - Fish & Chips’ in white and yellow Old English script. 

A bell tinkled above the door as Sherlock pushed it open to an apparently deserted shop. Sherlock stepped up to the counter and saw a man crouched behind it, rummaging in a cupboard below the register.

“Hello,” Sherlock said.  The man flinched and looked up quickly; Sherlock could see earbuds in his ears with a thin white wire leading to the pocket in his apron. 

“Oh, hello!” the man said cheerily as he stood and removed the earbuds. He was tall - he had a half inch on Sherlock, perhaps even an inch. He smiled in welcome, showing even white teeth behind full lips, and met Sherlock’s gaze with moss-green eyes rimmed in darkest gray. The wavy hair above sharp cheekbones and a fine forehead was red. Not carroty or ginger, but the auburn shade that complimented golden skin that tanned instead of burning. The tip of each wave was sun kissed strawberry blond. 

But the best thing about the tall, slim man was the open admiration with which he stared at Sherlock. After the evening he’d had, Sherlock’s ego could use a boost. And the chip shop worker appeared eager to give just such a boost. His gaze swept down Sherlock’s body to his shoes then back up to Sherlock’s face; he grinned appreciatively. Sherlock grinned back. It wasn’t hard to return the favor with a sweep of his own eyes.

Finally the man spoke. “There’s something on your face,” he said, gesturing beside his own nose with his thumb.

_ Oh! _ Sherlock had quite forgotten his bloody nose. He raised the back of his hand to his nose; it came away bright red. The man grabbed napkins and came around the counter. “Looks like you got into a little trouble. Here, let me.” He bunched up a paper napkin and held it to Sherlock’s face. Normally, Sherlock would have protested that he could take care of it himself but the man also laid a hand on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of that hand through the layers of his coat, jacket and shirt - it felt good. “Tip your head up,” the man continued while he reached over to one of the tables in the front window and pulled out a chair. “Sit,” he said and Sherlock did. The man pulled out another chair and slid it close to Sherlock’s. He sat and held the tissue to Sherlock’s nose. 

“I was about to close up. You can stay, if you’d like, while I clean up.”  

Sherlock took over holding the tissue when the man got up and locked the door. “Folks call me Chippers,” he said over his shoulder. 

“Sherlock.”

“Well, Sherlock, I have some things I need to do to shut up for the night. Want a bite to eat?”

“Yes, that is what I came in for.” 

“Okay then. Just sit tight,” Chippers said as he went back around the counter.

In just a few moments Chippers returned with an order of fish and chips in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. He handed Sherlock the food and sat a beer in front of him then resumed his seat.

Sherlock took a bite of fish. He closed his eyes and made an appreciative sound. “I’ve been away from London for quite a long time. I doubt you can understand how good this tastes to me right now.” He smiled.

Chippers tipped his beer in a toast. “Thanks, I’d like to think it’s my special recipe.”

Sherlock leaned forward and propped an elbow on the table. He leaned his chin on his hand. He’d found in the past that people considered the move attractive. “Are there a lot of things about you that people consider special?”

The grin that spread across Chippers’ face told Sherlock he’d done something right. He’d had to hone his flirting skills to get out of several sticky situations while he was away. Now it seemed to be paying off - Chippers was obviously interested. A quick shag might just be just the balm for his bruised ego.

“I’ve got about half an hour of cleaning up to do. After that, want to come upstairs for a beer?” Chippers tone of voice betrayed his confidence in Sherlock’s response.

Sherlock took another bite of fish and pretended to think over the offer while he chewed. After swallowing, he answered simply, “Allright,” and smiled again.

The gold flecks in Chippers’ green eyes seemed to glow when he smiled. “Finish up, then you can come around and talk to me while I close up.”

Chippers was wiping down the wall behind the deep fryer when Sherlock came around the counter, still wiping his greasy fingers on a paper napkin. He leaned against the counter and watched Chippers work. The tight green t-shirt Chippers wore showed off his trim physique. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flexed as he worked. He grinned when he glanced over his shoulder and caught Sherlock’s appreciative glance. 

Chippers moved on to clean the rest of the kitchen while Sherlock stared openly. The flirtatious banter flowed easily between them and Sherlock found himself telling this near-stranger stories from his ‘travels’ that he never thought he’d share with anyone. Chippers’ easygoing, open manner made it easy to share. Sherlock continued to chat while his companion counted the cash from the register then locked it in an under-counter safe. Finally he untied his apron and hung it beside the register then preceded Sherlock through a storage room and out the back door. Sherlock waited while Chippers locked the door and set the alarm. 

An exterior staircase lead up to the first storey then on to the second. Chippers unlocked the second storey door and led Sherock into a flat furnished with high end, contemporary furniture. The walls were painted a serene pale gray. Black leather sofa and chair were bracketed with glass and chrome end and coffee tables. Chippers turned on a lamp in the living room then thumbed a button on a small remote on the coffee table. Soft jazz music flooded the room: Saxophone and piano with lyrics crooned by a smooth male voice. He went through an archway into the gleaming kitchen and returned with beers. He handed one to Sherlock. They sat side-by-side on the sofa.

“Your furnishings and sound system seem out of synch with the apparent prosperity of your chip shop,” Sherlock observed.

Chippers took a long drink and propped a knee on the cushion between them so he could turn his body to fully face Sherlock. “I used to be in investments. I studied economics and finance, got a job with a major firm right out of uni. I worked crazy hours, traveled for the firm, nearly drove myself nuts. I made a lot of money. And I mean a lot. Then two years ago, I looked around my big corner office and I thought ‘fuck it. This isn’t fun.’ So I grabbed my coat and walked out. Just up and left, didn’t even tell the division vice president.” After another long drink, he continued. “The VP called me and asked if I was okay. I told him I guessed I’d just quit. He begged, offered me more money, better title, anything if I’d just come back. And I laughed right in his face! Told him I knew why he wanted me back so badly. Quarterly bonuses were coming up and I made him look good. I covered for his ignorant arse more than once and I was tired of it. I told him to fuck off and hung up.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “And then?”

Chippers laughed. The corners of his eyes crinkled. “He called again and again. So did his boss, and his boss's’ boss. But I told them all the same thing, to fuck off.” He paused to smile at Sherlock. “I decided I wanted to be my own boss, that my hard work would lead to my own profit or loss. So I bought the chip shop and that’s that.”

“And have you? Profited?” 

“I’ve had my ups and downs, but I’ve at least broken even every month so far.”

“Most small businesses lose money for at least a year. Breaking even would be considered to be a success by most people.”

Nodding, Chippers continued. “I guess I just have a knack for it. So far, at least. I plan to hire a helper or two, but right now I’m enjoying the freedom of sleeping late, opening in time for dinner and still closing in enough time to enjoy the night.”

Sherlock laid a hand on Chipper’s knee. He felt the heat through the cotton trousers. “And what do you usually do after you close?”

Covering Sherlock’s hand with his own, Chippers squeezed. “Not much. Get a drink, watch telly.”

“We’re drinking,” Sherlock tipped his beer bottle toward Chippers in a mock salute. “Telly’s still off.”

Chippers closed the narrow gap between them and cupped Sherlock’s jaw in his hand. He leaned in and placed his lips on Sherlock’s. His kiss was firm, insistent and without the slightest hesitation. He knew what he wanted from Sherlock and wasn’t afraid to go after it. The thought of being wanted so single-mindedly sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. 

“I smell like grease.” Chippers sat back and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “I always have a shower after shutting down the shop. Do you mind?”

“Of course not.” Sherlock played with his bottom lip with his thumb.

With a squeeze to Sherlock’s knee, Chippers rose and gestured toward the kitchen. “Help yourself. There’s beer in the fridge, spirits in the cabinet above the sink. Bedroom’s in there.” He gestured toward a half-open door in the hallway that ran off the living room before he disappeared behind the first door.

Sherlock roamed around the living room to find out more about his … date? … hook up? The bookcase on the far wall held volumes of philosophy, poetry, quantum mechanics, economics, art history, particle physics - it appeared Chippers was a Renaissance man. A grouping of framed photographs showed smiling children - obviously nieces and nephews. A younger Chippers with his arm around a woman 20 years his senior - mother. Chippers on a beach with his arm around a woman - sister, mother of the children.  _ Single mother, father not in the picture, she made sure Chippers and his sister got every opportunity even when the cost was beyond her budget. Well educated, Catholic schools, went to uni on a scholarship. Close to his extended family, no pets. Gay, not closeted but not in-your-face about it.  _ Sherlock smiled. He liked this Chippers already.

Pipes creaked in the wall and Sherlock heard the sound of the shower. He strolled into the kitchen but didn’t find many more clues about the man in the loo. The kitchen was spotless. A red ceramic bowl holding apples and a drip coffee maker were the only items on the counter and table. He fetched two beers from the fridge and headed toward the bedroom. It was equally as tidy:  brown rug on the gleaming wood floor, cream colored comforter on the large oak bed, two oak tables on either side of the bed, a brown wood chair and a dresser. Sherlock removed his jacket and folded it over the chair. He sat on the bed and removed his shoes, then unbuttoned another shirt button. 

Chippers came through the bedroom door with a white towel wrapped around his hips. His red-gold-brown hair gleamed with water droplets. His body was tanned - the beach picture was obviously recent. Sherlock stared openly at the gold-brown hair on his well shaped chest as Chippers came toward him. Without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, Chippers dropped the towel to the floor and said, “I think you’re a little overdressed for this occasion. Let me help you with that.”  He tugged on Sherlock’s elbow; Sherlock stood in response and Chippers stepped closer as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s white shirt. When it hung loose on either side of his chest, Chippers ran his palms over Sherlock’s pectorals and down his sides. 

When Chippers hands slipped around his ribs to caress his back, Sherlock drew in an involuntary gasp. “What’s this?” Chippers asked when he pulled his hands away and held them between him. Both palms were smeared with blood.

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned. “It’s nothing. Just some old wounds, reopened by the … altercation I had earlier. Please, let’s just …” Sherlock’s words trailed off as he stepped toward Chippers, but Chippers stepped back. 

“You need help. Let me look at that,” Chippers said. 

With a sigh, Sherlock slipped off his white shirt. The back was streaked with blood. He dropped it to the floor and turned around. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Chippers hissed. “What did you get into tonight?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. He could only see the topmost scars on his back, but knew from earlier inspections in mirrors that his back, already crisscrossed with scars from encounters over the past two years, now also held cuts and abrasions from the final beating he took in Serbia. “It’s nothing. Really. If you have a few plasters …”

Chippers grabbed his discarded towel and knotted it around his waist before leading Sherlock by the wrist, out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. He seated Sherlock on the closed toilet lid and crouched to rummage in the under-sink cabinet, finally finding package of gauze squares and medical tape. Chippers used a wet flannel to wipe away the blood, then dried Sherlock’s back carefully with a clean towel. He kept up a steady stream of casual conversation as he bandaged the wounds.

It made Sherlock’s eyes mist, the kindness this stranger he’d hoped to get off with showed to him, tending to his wounds without asking for details of where they’d come from. He drew a deep breath and held it to get himself under control. He’d already bled all over Chippers; the last thing Sherlock wanted to do was show him how deeply he was affected by this kindness. The juxtaposition of Chippers’ hands working gently over his back and John’s angry hands around his neck, pushing him to the ground and re-opening the wounds that had been nicely healing nearly unraveled his carefully constructed facade.

“There, all better now.” Chippers patted his shoulder then put the supplies away. He turned back to Sherlock with a sly smile. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Bedroom. C’mon.” 

Standing beside the bed, Chippers ran his hands lightly over Sherlock’s chest and down his torso. He held Sherlock’s waist lightly, thumbs circling into the waistband of his trousers. “I do believe this is where we left off.” He crouched slightly and initiated a kiss. Sherlock leaned in, opening his lips to Chippers’ tongue as he buried one hand in auburn hair and pulled at the towel around Chippers’ hips with the other. Chippers threaded his hands into Sherlock’s hair and tugged him gently away. 

“We need to make sure we don’t open those injuries again,” Chippers murmured. “Sit down.”

Sherlock did. Chippers stepped between his spread knees and kissed him again and again as he undid the hook and zip of Sherlock’s tight black trousers. Sherlock braced his hands against the mattress and pushed up slightly so Chippers could slide them off, and spread his knees even wider when Chippers dropped to the floor to work his trouser legs over his feet. The tip of Sherlock’s erection peeked from the waistband of his tight black boxer trunks. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It had been a long while since he’d got off with another person, and if he didn’t cool himself off, this wasn’t going to last long.

Chipper’s thumb pressed a line from the root of his cock to the tip, where he massaged Sherlock’s slit with the pad of his thumb. His eyes locked on the motion of his thumb, Chippers smiled at the way Sherlock’s cock jerked in response. Pink tongue swiped at his lower lip as he glanced up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Looks delicious.”

“Do help yourself,” Sherlock panted. He pushed his pants past his knees and Chippers finished stripping them off. Sherlock sighed in relief when Chippers’ fist circled around his length as Chippers bent and swallowed him down.

His hands slid behind him and Sherlock leaned back. He watched Chippers intently. The man knew his way around a blowjob; it felt almost too good, too soon. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning. His hips wanted to move, to rock up and meet each of Chippers’ movements, but Sherlock bit harder at his cheek and resisted the urge. He focused instead on the pull of medical tape on his back and the sting of the still-open wounds beneath them. The discomfort distracted him from the overwhelming pleasure between his legs.

He closed his eyes and let his head drop back. How different this night had turned out from what he’d hoped for. He’d hoped for sex but not with a random stranger, no matter how pleasant and skilled that stranger was. He’d planned to reveal his feelings to John and had hoped beyond hope for the same from John. Truth be told, Sherlock had spent several nights imagining this scenario - but with John on his knees between his legs, John’s mouth on him, John’s hand fondling his bollocks.

“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned while Chippers performed an especially pleasurable maneuver with his tongue. All thoughts of John and any shadow of sadness fled his mind, replaced with sweet sensation that blotted out thought. Chippers performed the trick again, and again, and pulled away only when Sherlock pushed his shoulder and panted, “Good, that’s too good.”

Chippers stood and captured Sherlock’s mouth roughly. Sherlock’s tongue slid against Chippers’, tasting the musk of his own arousal. Chippers bit Sherlock’s lower lip gently then stood. “I’d like to throw you on that bed and fuck you, but your back would bleed all over my clean sheets,” he said with a wicked grin. His eyes twinkled as he spoke. “And as much as I’d like you to fuck me, that would be mighty hard on your back, too.” 

“Got any other ideas?” Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Chippers winked. “How about you suck me while I’m sucking you? Good old fashioned sixty nine?”

Sherlock nodded and placed his hands on Chipper’s hips. He could deduce the brand of swimming trunks Chippers had worn on a recent holiday from the tan lines low across his hips and high across the tops of his thighs. He circled his thumbs on the creamy skin that the trunks had protected from the sun. Chippers’ cock, already heavy between his thighs, filled in response, rising toward Sherlock, who leaned forward and took the tip between his lips, sucking softly, working Chippers’ foreskin with his lips until he felt the smooth skin of the glans against his tongue. Sherlock had had to do many things, many of them illegal and immoral, to survive while he worked his way through Moriarty's network. He’d taken unspeakable actions, including trading sex for information. Those blowjobs had been a chore to get through - he hadn’t had the luxury of really enjoying the feeling of a cock in his mouth for a very long time. Sherlock tongued and sucked languidly, enjoying the slide of skin against his lips, the pulse of vein under his tongue. And it didn’t take a consulting detective to deduce from the noises Sherlock wrung from him that Chippers obviously enjoyed the attention.

Chippers ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and when Sherlock glanced up, Chippers gently tugged at the curls and murmured “C’mon.” Sherlock sat up and scooted onto the bed and Chippers climbed on beside him. They lay on their sides facing each other. Chippers ran his fingers lightly down Sherlock’s chest, teasing his nipples, then lower over flat his abdomen until his fingers brushed the the trimmed hair at the base of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock sighed and Chippers stroked him lightly before he sat up and said, “Just a second,” and positioned himself opposite of the way Sherlock lay. He eagerly took Sherlock into his mouth again and after a soft moan, Sherlock did the same. 

Neither man was in a hurry and both relished the pleasure they were giving and taking, mirroring each other’s actions, stroking and tonguing and licking and sucking until they were both moaning around the other. Sherlock hummed and thought about how he liked 69 because the cock in his mouth distracted him from the mouth on his cock, stretching out pleasure longer than a simple blow job. And from the sounds Chippers made, Sherlock was certain he shared the sentiment. 

Sherlock pulled at Chippers’ hips, rolling on to his back and bringing Chippers to his knees above him. Chippers protested, “Your back. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Sherlock pulled off Chippers’ cock and rasped, “It’s fine. I don’t care. Just give me what you’ve got.”

And Chippers did, bracing straight-armed, staring at Sherlock while he fucked Sherlock’s mouth roughly. Sherlock gasped and swallowed, struggling to breathe around the mouthful of thick prick. He cradled Chippers’ bollocks with one hand and slipped the fingers of the other into Chippers’ cleft to tease and stroke. Chippers responded with even deeper thrusts into Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s eyes streamed, he struggled to control his gag reflex, he gasped for breath and his back felt like it was aflame - and it was  _ glorious,  _ just what he needed to shut out thought of his disastrous reunion with John, of the engagement ring in John’s jacket pocket, of the woman to whom John had intended to present the ring, of John’s hands around his neck and John’s forehead connecting with his nose. He was so lost in sensation that he barely registered Chippers’ gasped warning before hot, thick ejaculate filled his mouth. He gagged and swallowed, trying to keep up with Chippers’ orgasm, eyes watering even more. At last Chippers’ hips stilled and he pulled his cock from Sherlock’s mouth gently before he flopped on his back on the bed.

“Give me a minute,” Chippers gasped. He threw his forearm over his eyes as he panted to get his breath.

Sherlock rolled to his side facing Chippers’ sated body. “I’m close,” he said as he grasped his swollen prick and stroked roughly. Chippers reached out and rubbed his palm over the exposed glans while Sherlock jerked. Sherlock’s vision went white and his awareness of the tape pulling on his back receded as shivers of pleasure flooded his body. He drew in a gasp and came into Chippers’ hand with a groan. 

He came back into himself to find Chippers laying on his side, smiling. “I don’t suppose you smoke?” Sherlock asked.

Chippers shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t.”

Rolling onto his front with a sigh, Sherlock said, “There’s a pack of cigarettes in my jacket pocket. Could you reach it?” He was rewarded with a view of Chipper’s well shaped backside when he got up and fetched Sherlock’s cigarettes. Chippers handed over his empty beer bottle to use as an ashtray. Sherlock groaned at the pull of the medical tape as he pushed himself to a sitting position and slung his legs over the side of the bed. Chippers scooted up and curled himself around Sherlock as he lit up. They shared a companionable silence while Sherlock took a few satisfying drags. He eventually felt a hand toying with the corner of one of the bandages on his back. 

“Want to tell me what happened?” The question was so soft, Sherlock barely heard. He turned his head to meet Chippers’ eyes then looked away before he answered.

“I was away for a long time. I was tortured in Serbia, related to my work. When I came back to London, there was someone I wanted to see very badly. Unfortunately our reunion didn’t go as I’d planned.” Sherlock took a long pull on the cigarette and watched as the red glow race down its length.

“Are you some kind of spy?” Chippers chuckled.

“No, consulting detective. Sometimes my work gets messy.”

“And this someone you wanted to see gave you a bloody nose?”

Sherlock nodded. He answered on a plume of smoke. “I surprised him at an inopportune time. Wasn’t very perceptive of me, I admit.”

Chippers made a sympathetic sound as he silently stroked Sherlock’s back with his fingertips, trailing around the bandages. The glowing cigarette hissed as it hit the backwash in the bottom of the bottle. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I should go,” he murmured.

Chippers placed a kiss on his shoulder. “You could stay.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I just got back and there’s a lot of loose ends I need to tie up.” 

A warm hand gripped Sherlock’s chin and turned his head for a kiss. Chippers’ lips were soft. He pulled back an inch to say, “Come see me again, next time you’re hungry?”

Sherlock looked into the green eyes and saw friendly admiration. Chippers seemed so open, so uncomplicated. Along with being a good tumble in the sheets, he was also good company. And Sherlock had been so alone for so long, it soothed a wound he didn’t know his soul had carried since he’d watched John talk to his tombstone. He grinned. “I don’t eat while I’m working. But I do get hungry between cases.”

**Author's Note:**

> gurkenpflaster gifted me incredible cover art for this fic!
> 
>    
> [Cover Art for Putting Up Shelves](http://gurkenpflaster.tumblr.com/post/148924144278/cover-for-putting-up-shelves-by-iriswallpaper)  
>  
> 
> Thank you gurkenpflaster! I love it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Putting Up Shelves by iriswallpaper](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765840) by [gurkenpflaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gurkenpflaster/pseuds/gurkenpflaster)




End file.
